


guilt-ridden photographs of you

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: (even if i could) make a deal with god [your blue-eyed boys related short-fic] [95]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky's total failure to recognize his own massive psychological progress, Depersonalization, Flashback, M/M, Somatoform Disorder, bad day, dissociative disorder, sometimes nothing fixes everything, the boys listen to Kevin and Ursula Eat Cheap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't make it go away and all he can do, ever, is give up and wait for it to be over. </p><p>Wait for it to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	guilt-ridden photographs of you

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of [**this series**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/132585), which is for short-fic associated with my fic [**your blue-eyed boys**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/107477), because I needed somewhere to stash it.

Memory's like scrabbling not to drown in mud. Viscous and thick and if you sink slower it sucks you under - wants you, clings to you, where water doesn't care. And it takes just that little bit longer for anything you clutch at to show whether it's going to hold or just get tangled around you and sink with you or even drag you further under. Like so much does. Like most shit does. He's huddled in the corner of the closet and if he knows where he fucking is that doesn't _matter_ , doesn't make the rest of it _stop_ , what he can hear, smell, feel, _see_ \- like echoes and afterimages, like something on sodden tissue wrapped around his face and choking him that he can't touch, can't get a hold on, can't get rid of. Drowning in the mud that rolls into you instead of flooding, pushes into your mouth and down your throat instead of spilling and a new, a different memory makes him gag. 

He's huddled against the wall with his head in his hands, knees pulled close and tight, like if he tries hard enough he can crawl inside his own skin, disappear. Die. _Stop_. Like he could make it stop, like he has ever, ever been able to fucking make it stop, as if in the moments fucking dripping across his brain he even fucking bothered to _try_. And he didn't. He didn't, God, no, knelt down and fucking _let them_ and right now the smears are all each time a baton hit and the shock ran through him and then came back, from his arm, from his left arm, and spread like razor-wire _under_ his skin back out from his shoulder across his chest and his back and his spine to his hips, his neck, his other arm. And then over again. And again. 

And _shut up_ , fuck you, fuck off, go _away_ \- and it doesn't, never does, not now, not then, _then_ he doesn't even think it, doesn't think anything, _isn't_ anything except fucking meat and metal and choking shame because this is for failure, this is the consequence, this is _his fault_ \- and in the now he still can't make it stop, shut up, fucking _go_. It's inside him and he can't get away because there's nowhere to go, because it's _in_ him, inside, every fucking worm of memory burrowed so deeply into his skin they're wrapped around his bones, so far into his head they've gnawed themselves a den in the soggy fucking mess of his brain. Inside him, part of him. Are him. 

He can't make it go away and all he can do, ever, ever do is give up and roll over and wait for them to be done. 

Wait for it to stop. 

 

Takes time. Time until everything smears enough it isn't seeing, anymore, or hearing, just remembering; until it runs together out of his head and down his throat and spread into his gut, into nausea and ache, so he pushes himself up and onto his feet, out of the room, so the vomit goes in the toilet instead of on the floor. The idiot kitten tries to get herself killed by getting under his feet, following and mewling. 

(She tried, in the other room. Gave up, shut up, sat down. Waited.) 

His stomach keeps heaving long after there's nothing left in it. Cold sweat makes his skin tacky, makes it stick to his clothes, plastic of the toilet seat, porcelain, everything. Nausea and ache are the same thing, mixed up like salt in water. Psychosomatic bullshit. Brain gets so fucked up it doesn't even know where to fucking put it all so it just shoves it down the easiest path. 

The stupid kitten puts her forepaws up on the toilet's rim; he catches her under the stomach and puts her back a few feet. Reaches out to hit the flush and make himself stand up. He leans on the wall. His head's like it always is, after this shit - like a flood came through and left it's one-colour silt and filth an inch deep on everything when the water ran out. 

He washes his face, arms. Rinses his mouth. Pulls his hair back away from his face before he fucking rips it all out. Strips out of clothes damp from the cold sweat, throws them in the laundry-basket, finds new ones. Ignores the knives in one drawer, the Beretta in the other. 

It's not a flashback, now; it's just a memory. Memory of failing something, fucked if he even knows what, and what came after. Knowing the worst part wasn't pain, the worst part was shame, and why, and how that turns his stomach again. 

He pulls on sweats and a long-sleeved shirt. Hesitates over it longer than he likes, like it fucking matters what he wears, if he takes one of the newer pairs of sweats, where the insides haven't pilled yet. He's tired and his head's full of fucking slime and _who fucking cares_. And he still hesitates longer than he likes. 

And he thinks about going out to the couch or the futon. Of finding coffee, something on the fucking TV. Of going out, of running, finding a current to swim against and fight, of doing any fucking thing. Thinks about it and looks down at the knife already in his hand and throws it so fucking hard it sticks in the wall between the bedroom and the hall even still in its fucking sheath. Shoves everything else off the bureau, too, refuses to look at what he thinks he hears breaking. 

He lets himself drop on the bed, instead of looking. Instead of thinking about it. Turns away from the door and ignores the crawling feeling up his back. Like it could make any fucking difference. He finds the tablet on the bedside table and pulls it over sharp enough to yank the power-cord out. Finds something for noise, needs fucking noise, before it builds up in his head again and ends up - 

The kitten jumps up on the bed, whining and burrowing her way under his top arm, right arm. He finds the damn artist-woman and her husband babbling about food, sets it up to play through all of the files at random and then shoves it on the floor. 

It's 1343. He pretends he didn't see that on the bedside clock, either. 

 

The woman's drunk and rhapsodizing on narwhals and whether one would put its head on her lap, while the husband regrets ever mentioning them, when Steve gets home. Bucky feels himself tense at the sound of someone in the hall, pretends he doesn't. Pretends he can do something, fucking do anything, about the way he stays tense. Pretends he doesn't give a fuck that the sun's down. That he hasn't fucking moved for hours. 

Pretends a fucking lot of things. 

The artist-woman laments not having a fucking narwhal. Bucky refuses to turn over when he can hear Steve in the hall, refuses to admit he notices the kitten go _prrt?_ and lift her head, stretching it out to sniff at his face. To think about how he's still lying where he dropped, head resting on his bent left arm, half-curled in the middle of the bed without touching the pillows. 

The tablet hits the end of the file, shuffles to pull another one from the list. Steve doesn't touch the wall, or the shit that's all over the floor. Does get rid of the belt he's wearing. 

It's hard to breathe, when Steve puts his weight on a knee on the bed, because the muscles around Bucky's ribs won't let go, won't release, just wind themselves tighter. He flinches, when Steve touches his right shoulder. Always does. Almost always. 

Fuck this. Fuck _him_. 

The husband chatters about the "live studio beagle". Steve slides his hand down Bucky's arm and settles behind him, arm wrapping around Bucky's waist. He's warm against Bucky's back, and so fucking careful it could make you fucking sick. 

Now it's his throat closing that makes it hard to breathe. His eyes are closed and he's not sure when he closed them. 

Steve rests his forehead against the top of Bucky's spine. "Missed you," he says, and it doesn't help open Bucky's throat. Steve's right hand rests against his skin, over his lower abdomen. And after a minute Bucky realizes he's shaking, and there's no way Steve can't feel it. Feels that twist up again, and feels Steve's arm tighten. 

Steve says, "Hey. It's okay." He finds Bucky's right hand and interlaces their fingers. 

And he says, "It'll stop."


End file.
